However, Clem hardly could understand the film because he could not stop thinking of the pape in his hand.
By the moment when the lights were turned on, he was consumed by curiosity, and yet he went to see the unknown spectator in the balcony, first, in order to return the note, since the finding was accidental and it scarcely had anything to do with his life and business.
But he failed; there waass not a person wearing glossy black gloves. Looking from the balcony, he found his left seat in the hall and looked at the seats in the balcony which were on the line of the paper's fall. The seats were taken, but no one of the men had black gloves on, and the most probable of the seats were taken by a damsel whose soft-yellow gloved hands played a small fan resting on the red plush banister at the moment. To examine the message once again, Clem went to the gentlemen's room, where he unfolded it.
The message proved to be a note. The hand of the writer looked unknown to Clem. No addressee, no signature. The note said that some contingency didn't let the writer to spend in Brumburg more than an hour and only at the railway station. The writer was on the way to Mitava but he hoped to see the note's addressee soon, kissed and wished all the best. There was P. S.:
"Concerning the Kernstadt Castle, Suurkukk Factory, and the business, which I wrote about, asking for your assistance.
In Weymarn, my friend [ the address was in round brackets ] keeps one locker. He can't keep it any longer, so, be so kind as to take the locker to yours. In the locker, you'll find a box. A well-packed parcel. The address of the shipping agency in Mitava is written on the parcel. Please, send the parcel to the address, and the locker, keep at yours, for a while."
There was P.P.S.:
"I wish you were by me, in my sin palace."
No names but two geographical names. No mournful news. Apparently, someone had no other paper for writing but the black-bordered. Those businessmen... Yet the note had something most interesting and quite unexpected. "Kernstadt Castle" was the name of my estate, and "Suurkukk" was the name of the land belonging to me. That's why Clem could not leave the piece of paper away and forget of the happening. "What if I do it instead of the addressee?" he thought to himself, "Suppose, I'll go to do what the note asks about. In that event, I merely shall do a good deed, for I'm not about to misappropriate anything or unveil anybody's secrets. Merely, I'll be able to see the locker and the pack and to learn more, only a little bit more, or perhaps much, or all I want to know about… No, I don't know about what. Most probably, I shall be disappointed seeing those things which belong to a stranger... and yet I'll learn at least something about those who mention the geographical names familiar to me." All he knew for certain was that he felt more and more curious.
But he felt too lazy for going to Weymarn or another town. Having more important business and feeling curious at the same time, at home, in Lamplighters Lane, he called a servant and told to care about a messenger to Weymarn and the delivery however much it cost.
Next day, opening his eyes, he found himself in his bed. The big pale spot of sunshine on the wall was chequered with the shadow of the familiar casement. The servant returned afternoon.
The dray was unloaded outside the windows, in the spacious backyard. Then, seeing the locker, new, standard and drab, so ordinary, Clem felt disappointed.
The locker was placed in the corridor. The lock clicked, he opened the door and saw four shelves, and two boxes on each of the shelves, with the boxes properly packed for shipping. He took one of the parcels in hands, examined and placed back. Doing it to each of the boxes, he saw the addressees were different: one to St Petersburg, one to London, three to Paris, all the rest to Transylvania. The addressees were different, but all the inscriptions were made by the same hand, distinct and remarkable and unknown to him. Shipper was one Mr Kornelis Aboleo, Brumburg, St Benedict Street.
(The name "Aboleo" uttered by Clem aloud sounded strange, for me, his listener, and he himself felt like this, when he was alone and examining the boxes, but I remembered I happened to hear the name from my attorney, who negotiated with Aboleo about my estate Kernstadt Castle, or to be more exact, about the chocolate factory, which some enterprisers wanted to build, renting my land, with me being unaware of details, merely knowing that the business was managed by some English merchants of the names of either "Drinkings" or "Drizzlings.")
Clem thought to himself, "The locker as well as all about it looks like a boring stuff." He went to the next locker in the row. four shelves again and two boxes on each shelf. The addresses were written by the same hand. Clem felt depressed. He opened all the rest lockers, one by one -- the same. "I'll go to that Aboleo and let him take all the boring stuff," it flashed across his mind, "Really, I am not a forwarding agent and my flat is not a storehouse." Getting resolved, he looked at the address of the shipper once again to write it down.
Completely dressed, Clem went out, took cab and went to St Benedict Street.
(St Benedict, the patron saint of Europe and students. The name of the street may be showing the citizens' love for education. In the past, maybe. Not sure about the present: absent too long.)
On the way, he thought that he ought to give a ring to Aboleo, for they never saw each other. Then he remembered of his intention to send a telegram, in case if he never found Leticia in their flat. He told to stop the cab at the post office.
Later, in Gunsmiths Avenue, at the turn to St Benedict Street, the cab's wheel broke. Clem's fall was happy, but he believed it was of ill omen. The coachman began arguing, but Clem dropped heavy and went to look for the house he wanted.
It was not far off, but Clem got astray and he wandered in a broad courtyard that was empty at the moment and it could be empty for a long while, because nobody was around a human lying on the ground nearby the fire escape.
Looking up at the top of the five storey apartment house, Clem thought, "What a tragedy!" because he imagined that the human fell from a five story window. If from the top of the fire escape, then the fall could be a lethal case too. Clem hastened to cross the courtyard towards the body.
His footprints were the only sound in the well-like courtyard. The human lying on the ground was a lady. Completely dressed, the unknown lady was lying on back, her eyes closed, hands up on her head level. Her hands were gloved; she had a hat on; a dolly-bag was fastened on her wrist. No blood around; a gleam of hope that the lady might be alive. Before calling for help, Clem knelt for a small checking up.
The back of her head seemed all right; no wound, no bleeding, no obvious fracture in her cranium; Clem's fingertips felt the soft locks of her coppery hair, the warm skin of her neck and the stiff stand collar of her short mantle –here, his checking up made her come to herself. She opened her eyes; at the same time, Clem glimpsed a human going towards them.
The man's apron and broom in hand suggested he was the yardman. With his aid, Clem helped the lady sit up, and then, she showed her intention to stand up with the aid of the men.
The tall good-looking lady in green and black seemed both weak and nervous. "It's an exceptional luck, madame, you safely fell off the stair.... or from a window?"
"Why?.. What are you talking about?" she stared at Clem and she told the story of her fall. But first, she turned to the yard-keeper and asked to deliver a note that she hastened to write with the aide of a pencil and notebook from her dolly-bag.
In fact, she fell when she was on the ground, standing by the fire escape and lookinh up at her apartment on the first floor, because something sudden and sinister made her left her appartent via the back door and then look up. In brief, she was about to go out earlier today when she head someone's presence in the entry. Alone at home, she felt scared and she dashed to the back door. Outside, seeing herself alone in the spacious courtyard and feeling unable to resist to someone's chasing, she paused, looked up and it seemed to her that a chaser could appeare any minute. Then she swooned. "I was in a hurry, you see, and I was scared..." she spoke while putting her hat and hair in order as far as her state permitted. Her stare was inquiring. Then, Clem volunteered to see her to her apartment. She accepted his help, saying, "I fear to stay home alone. But I'd like to see how's apartment and to take a look at myself in the mirror before going out."
Going upstairs, Clem thought of police, if need were, but in the second floor he saw the door of Apartment 7. They paused and he said about his search of Apt 7. The lady's reply confirmed the right nuber of the house and the name of the street. Clem said, "I'd like to see Mr Kornelis Aboleo."
"It's impossible," the lady said, with her starry brown eyes gazing at his face, "For Mr Aboleo lives here no longer."
"May I…"
"Do you want his new address?"
"No," Clem took off his hat, "May I introduce myself…"
Saying his name, Clem heard in reply, "Delamarche. Mlle Almodis Delamarche."
"Nice to meet you, Mlle Delamarche, and yes, I'd like to get Mr Aboleo's new address."
The door was not locked as Mlle Delamarche tried the doorhandle. She opened the door, and Clem saw chaos made by someone's hand. All in the hallway looked smashed. Mlle Delamarche looked shocked. He said, "We must call police."
"I've called help," she said.
Remembering the note, Clem nodded.
"Wait a moment. I have the address written somewhere." She entered the appartment, leaving the young man, which looked like she left it to him to do whatever he wanted. Then, he stepped over the threshold.
Broken china crunched under her feet; she took her antel on the move. Seeing her green-and-black snake-like rear, he realized that he did something improper when entering her abode without invitation. The remains of the tall irror looked especially dispiriting in the dimly lit hallway.
She returned and began to speak in an oddly changed voice, "I can't find it. However… Mr Aboleo's new address can be found the yard-keeper's, no?" a small tray was in her hand.
Afterwards, at his, as well as at our talk, Clem could not say why he didn't left the apartment on the instant and why he took the glass from her tray. Laying her hands on the table, she stared at Clem's face, with her jewellery seen especially distinct, in the daylight projected in the broken mirror.
A topful wineglass. It smelled like Vin Mariani but the drink could be mixed with some potion.
The big necklace of several big malachite cabochon pendants in yellow gold shone against the white skin of her breast in the rich ruche trimming; her big malachite cabochon earrings in yellow gold swung fiercely though she seemed motionless in the state of a strange tension; the brilliant hairpins in her coppery yellow hairdo glittered looking innumerable; her knuckles turned white underneath two heavy chain-like gold bracelets which fell on her hands from under the ruche of her long sleeves. Now, instead of leaving the apartment, Clem made two or three gulps, and then, the Cheraton table between him and her began looking more and more curious, because it jumped.
Her hands were on the table no longer, and it began jumping up and swaying from side to side, which exercises confused Clem, and his excited mind invented the names for the motions of the inanimated object: "pas de chamois", "pas de gazelle", "pas de Bedouin". The table now grew in a chimney pot or stove pipe, now its dimension reduced like a collapsible top hat's. Now, after Clem's fall on the floor, the table jumped higher up to the ceiling, grew rapidly up, and then with the characteristic snapping sound it folded flat like a gibus, chapeau claque, and took shape of a top hat. A lilac silk top hat. As soon as Clem showed intention to rise from the chair, the top hat jumped, hit him in his chest and recoiled like a sportsman awaiting his move. Thus, Clem was unable to stand up or the reason only seemed to him. Next, he saw that the object that jumped on him, hitting every time on his chest, was a walking-stick and not some top hat. He reached for the naughty stick but it recoiled, and then, the table turned into a big white spidery shade.
Clem could not take his eye off the shade and it was worth seeing, because the shade materialized into an icy crystal spider or arachnid, a joint-legged monster. The legs were eight; each of the eight legs was sharp crystal; moreover, each leg was covered with hoarfrost --the snow-white scurf that frost formed on surfaces. The eyeless head of the monster had fangs that could inject chill and not venom –it flashed across Clem's mind. The spider's body seemed consist of a lower part or belly or stomach and this body was in the form of a big solid crystal, translucent and somewhat frosty too, with the crystal brightly lit inside like a fanciful lantern, heavy, down to the floor, and one could see the intrails was something like a room with some vaguely seen interior; a brightly lit room in miniature. The ice spider paused, with its dreadful legs too slow and the lantern too heavy for the next step, and then, the naughty walking-stick turned somersaults in the air and flew in the lit crystal; Mlle Delamarche, the Cheraton furniture and other objects reeled before Clem's eyes and followed the stick. All black and white, grayscale like in cinema, with the only thing, the top hat remaining lilac. The ice spider stepped back and this glacial embodiment of dread disappeared in an abyss that yawned in the wall. Afterwards, at home, Clem recorded his experience and visions which helped him realise that he was given a dubious potion.
Clem could not open his eyes any longer; as soon as he tried to do it, there was a flash of lightning, and a heavy bell seemed to boom in his head. Red spots within fiery green circles floated between his eyeballs and narrowed eyelids; he felt nauseous. Through the mirage, he saw Mlle Delamarche approaching the telephone, which remain safe on the table, the same table with a walking-stick, brown wood and silver at a leg, and giving a ring by saying a number. A phone talk with someone. Glory to telephone! But strangely, Clem could not hear her voice, only seeing her lips moving.
Next, after the phone talk, three or four guys came in the naughty apartment; their faces with protective autocar goggles bent over Clem, and he nearly fainted once again, as they lifted him and carefully brought him out of the den. It seemed to him that the small procession went to some brassy sounds that faded in and turned into an unknown sweet music from a gramophone, and Clem could understand several snatches of the song sung by a mellow male voice, "...from the sound and light... comes ...From house of might... Long may you reign!.." It was scarcely could be said about his case.
Outside, in St Benedict Street, he was placed in an autocar.
In the autocar, he felt such a throbbing in his head that he closed his eyes, and he either sank into a clement slumber or had been in a semiconscious state for some time. When the autocar stopped, he saw he was taken to the railway station. After getting out of the autocar, he was given his own travel bag, which was carefully packed, and the autocar took his mysterious companions or guardians away.
In the railway carriage, which took him home, cigarette smokes floated, bluish and thin, creating a haze. It was stuffy in the half-empty carriage, and his eyelids were heavy with sleep. The series of more or less vision in his sleep ended and again, only the striped upholstery before his eyes and the bluish smoky air around.
Clem rubbed his tired eyes. He sought to remember all what happened to him after his leaving home. The Story of Locker at his visit Mlle Delamarche was easy to be recalled, but all the subsequent he could remember only as hazy pictures. From the haze, the white face of Mlle Delamarche began coming out, next, faces of strangers with lips that moved without uttering a sound. Then he remembered his own words, "It's not my stick! Where there's my walkig-stick?!" The train ran in at the station, and he had to stand up.
("Here I stop," Clem said, sighing and looking at my face, "I mustn't tire you on the day of your arrival." However I persuaded him, asking to continue, saying that I was all right, Clem was firm, "Anyway, that's enough telling for the day."
At heart, I knew he was right. Thankful to his sensibility, I sighed too and looked round. Se non e vero, e ben trovato. If it's not true, then it's well-made up, as the ancient Italians said.)
On the moment of this pause in Clem's narration, he and I were outdoors, nearby the Manor House. The blue spirals of the chimney smokes went above the gabled roof. Pausing in the air, the blue spirals moved towards the vegetation and vanished there – or somewhere in a well of our forgotten dreams. The owl-light was quiet. I looked at Clem's face, "All I can say now is… quelque chose doit être fait."
He said nothing in reply, and we went to the house.
People of Nyomanland were largely pragmatic, gravitating to sobriety, with no vivid imagination, but their native land had some truly naughty places that they had used to be living around, alongside of anything supernatural, for centuries; the combination of these two circumstances was a reason why I believed that every legend of the land held much true. Clem happened to see the Hunter in White; something other, weirder and more alarming that he saw could be ominous and not merely curious or funny, and yet all this was bearable and of no great importance if it were not for his mother's disappearance at the period so difficult for the family; that's why my belief was that he was right calling me.
His telling, my questioning and writing down took us the daytime, with us making a break for dinner and snack. My Notes about all I heard from Clem I began for chronology and better understanding it all, which was my custom, after all. Alone in my room, after supper, I had no strength for rereading my Notes, but I had a book to read for goodnight.
A recently published book written by our contemporary author: before going to my room, I asked Clem to give me a copy of his mother's book. Clem went to his room and returned with a thin book in hand. Without looking at the book cover, I went to my room. Only abed, I took the book from the top of the bedside table and read the title: DREAM THE CONQUEROR. The authoress' name... seeing it, I nearly jumped. Clio Gautier. Her pen-name. Sic.
My aunt wrote poetry; I heard that her first book of poetry was either published or self-published, but I never read her poems, knowing nothing of her book's title or her pen-name, expecting to see her real name on the book-cover. Now, this surprise --she was Clio Gautier, whose name I heard at the tea party of the Book Club, in Brumburg... Lovers of the Written Word a branch of the Fine Arts Appreciation Society of Nyomanland. "It might be the very authoress... no, she is." Clutching the book, I left the room.
Finding Clem, I delineated the information of the event where I happened to hear of his mother. The news stunned him like it was with me but just. We settled in the dining-room to lay heads together for the conference.
According to my information, the mentioned dinner was to be on Wednesday. The next day's Friday. My suggestion was simple and the only possible, in my view, "We have the days for getting prepared. On Monday we'll go to Brumburg, come to the Book Club, ask the unknown lady's name and address, visit her and ask about her guest authoress, or at worst, we can come to the dinner party, incognito uninvited, if need be, in order to see your mother or to take her or anybody else at a disadvantage. We'll see how secret the guest is."
Thus, Brumburg should be revisited once again and both of us should do it. Clem and I took a drink of Louis XIII for goodnight, then one more drink, and then we could not part company immediately. I spend some time at his, abed. What could I say about our intimacy of the night... In my embrace, he presently got driven to a state of an excessive exaltation when he nearly wept like a child. The tension of the last weird days and nights slipped into the boisterous relaxation of the sort, usual for his age but apparently forgotten by my poor little boy for the time of our parting. My unearthly visit gave him the chance to remember it, and finally we gained the bliss giving this kind of pleasure to each other. That's all about our intimacy of the night, in a few words.
"Je t'adore." Leaving him couched in slumber, I went to my room, almost straightforward, merely turning to the dining-room and pausing at the cupboard in order to take a drink of Louis XIII for goodnight. In my room, again, I washed my hands, glanced at the clock and looked out the window.
According to Clem's telling, it was now too late for watching the parade of his "apollos." Seeing nothing extraordinary outside, I went to bed, but before turning off the lamp, I opened the book which should be studied. At that late hour, my ability to read was enough only for reading and appreciating two prose poems written by my Aunt Leticia:
MELODIOUS EVERYTHING
The couple was made for each other.
She lived for him, and he lived to give light to people.
When they were together,
people admired the beauty and harmony,
which the couple emitted.
Their relationship like music
spreading and enfolding all around,
both time and space; their touches like a kind
of hypnotic slumber relaxing and at the same time
invigorating with an unearthly energy of magic,
which always helped the blind men to recover sight,
the madmen to get sane,
and the desperate ones to find hope --
the hope of something like a miracle
and of the time when everyone reaches agreement:
the grief-stricken and the jubilant,
the enamoured and the unfortunate,
the satisfied and the thirsty. The hope of happiness.
And the story of the couple
could be happiest in the world
if it were not for one circumstance.
Worshiping him, she melted slowly but inevitably,
getting smaller and smaller,
till she got smallish and then disappeared.
And he disappeared along with her,
leaving a tiny light as edification for those
who did not appreciate life and as reproach to those
who appreciated afterlife.
Sad story? Maybe. In the story,
like in many other writings, affairs and incidents,
there is no alternative, because…
she was a mere wax candle,
and he was but a little tongue of flame
trembling above his beloved one. -- This way,
the great composer mused,
contemplating the melting candle,
three hours before his death.
The second poem's titled was
OPENING OF A NOVEL
Loud, the footsteps pierced the silence
of the dark lane, as she desperately ran.
Not a single person. And her lord,
her future owner, simply walked after.
It seemed to be all over
nothing could save her,
but a light gleamed in the distance,
and she rushed in the abyss of the next lane.
Falling, with bleeding knees, she rushed onwards
in the darkness, in the hope of a way out,
but every time she stumbled upon a deadlock.
The mysterious and dreamlike light faded out,
slowly, losing the saving power. In the next dirty lane,
she stumbled upon a door and began knocking,
but in vain, only breaking her nails, and then
falling on knees, she implored as the moonlight glinted over a knife.
The blood painted the wall,
and the night covered up all the shadows.
If an authoress is sentimental, then nothing good comes of it. If a man gives his sentimental feelings the bridle, then a masterpiece like The Picture of Dorian Gray comes into the world. In my view, whatever an authoress writes, she remains but a clocking hen, and however dark her prose or poetry is, it's a sheer following the fashion, therefore, this dark prose or poetry can inspire a parody. Some time ago, I wrote a parody to the modern day writings of the sort. This is the draft that was never finished:
TRIUMPH OF DEATH (Romantic Interlude)